Chapter 1: Blood and Ambition
The Britannian transport cut through storm clouds like a steel predator, its sleek hull gleaming against the roiling darkness. Lightning flickered across the cabin windows in brief, violent flashes, each one illuminating Earl Bartley Asprius's ashen face. His hands trembled against the leather armrest as another thunderclap shook the aircraft, though the storm outside paled in comparison to the tempest of dread churning in his gut.
Prince Clovis is dead. The words echoed endlessly in his mind, each repetition driving home the magnitude of his failure. And I'm the one who has to explain it.
The intercom crackled to life, the pilot's voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts. "Approaching Area 12 restricted airspace. Beginning final descent to Red Ribbon Command."
Asprius closed his eyes, feeling the aircraft bank sharply as it descended through the cloud cover. When he opened them again, the view below stole what little breath he had left. The Australian wasteland had been transformed into something from a fever dream—a sprawling metropolis of steel and concrete that stretched beyond the horizon. Massive industrial complexes belched crimson smoke into the sky, while training grounds the size of small cities hosted military exercises that looked more like choreographed warfare than simple drills.
At the heart of it all loomed the Red Ribbon headquarters: a colossal fortress that seemed to claw at the heavens with obsidian spires, each one crowned with the crimson banner bearing that infamous symbol—the double R enclosed in a circle, like a target painted in blood.
The transport's landing gear engaged with a mechanical whine that set Asprius's teeth on edge. Through the porthole, he watched armed soldiers emerge from the shadows of the landing platform, their movements precise and predatory. These weren't ordinary Britannian troops—their black uniforms bore the distinctive red ribbons that marked them as elite, and their eyes held the cold calculation of those who had killed without question and would do so again.
The cabin door hissed open with the finality of a tomb sealing shut.
"Earl Asprius." The voice belonged to a tall figure whose face was hidden beneath the brim of a peaked cap adorned with twin crimson ribbons. "Commander Red is expecting you. You're late."
The accusation hung in the air like a blade. Asprius stumbled from his seat, his legs weak beneath him. "I... the storm delayed—"
"Explanations are for the Commander," the officer interrupted, his tone suggesting that offering them to anyone else was a waste of breath—possibly the last mistake Asprius would ever make.
They marched through corridors that hummed with barely contained energy. The walls were lined with viewing windows that offered glimpses into chambers better left unseen. In one, scientists in blood-spattered coats observed as prisoners were subjected to experiments that defied human decency. A man's scream cut through the reinforced glass, only to be abruptly silenced by some mechanical horror that Asprius dared not look at directly.
What kind of monster have I come to face?
The thought struck him as they passed a training ground where soldiers sparred with weapons that crackled with electricity. One combatant fell, convulsing as his opponent stood over him without offering aid. The fallen man's twitching ceased, and his partner simply moved on to the next opponent as if nothing had happened.
Death was casual here. Expected. Welcomed.
They climbed a seemingly endless spiral staircase that wound around the central spire of the complex. With each step, Asprius felt the weight of his impending judgment pressing down upon him. The air grew thicker, charged with an oppressive energy that made his skin crawl. By the time they reached the massive doors at the summit, he could barely breathe.
The entrance to the throne room was a masterwork of intimidation—twin slabs of black marble veined with crimson, each one carved with scenes of conquest and submission. Soldiers in perfect formation flanked the doors, their faces hidden behind masks bearing the Red Ribbon insignia. As Asprius approached, they moved with mechanical precision, hauling the massive portals open to reveal the chamber beyond.
The throne room was a cathedral of power and menace. Pillars of dark stone stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, while crimson banners hung like drops of blood frozen in time. Banks of monitors lined the walls, displaying tactical information and surveillance feeds from across the empire. But all of this faded into insignificance when Asprius's gaze fell upon the figure seated on the throne.
Prince Cornelius Britannia was smaller than expected, almost diminutive compared to the grandeur surrounding him. But size meant nothing when faced with those eyes—cold, calculating orbs that seemed to dissect everything they looked upon with surgical precision. He wore a simple black uniform adorned with crimson ribbons and insignia, and atop his head sat a cap that cast his face in perpetual shadow. Only his eyes remained visible, gleaming like twin stars in the darkness.
This was Commander Red, the prince who had transformed a backwater colony into the empire's most feared military installation. The man who had made his own family tremble with a mere glance.
"Earl Bartley Asprius." The voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it infinitely more terrifying than any shout could have been. "You appear... distressed. Please, take a seat. We have much to discuss."
A chair materialized from the shadows as if summoned by will alone. Asprius stumbled toward it, his legs barely supporting his weight. The moment he sat, he realized his mistake—the chair was positioned precisely to put him at a disadvantage, forcing him to crane his neck upward to meet Commander Red's gaze while leaving him completely exposed.
"Your Highness," Asprius managed, his voice cracking like a adolescent's. "I... I've come to report on the situation in Area 11—"
"Japan," Commander Red corrected with quiet authority, rising from his throne with fluid grace. "The nation is called Japan, Earl Asprius. I find it remarkable how our empire insists on erasing the very identity of those we conquer, as if doing so will somehow make them more... compliant."
He began to circle the chair with predatory patience, his footsteps echoing in the vast chamber like a countdown to execution. "Tell me, what did you think of our father's recent address to the nation? Such stirring words about unity and strength, don't you think?"
A screen descended from the ceiling with mechanical precision, displaying the Emperor's speech. Commander Red watched with an expression of mild interest, as if observing an insect struggling in a web.
"Inspiring rhetoric," he murmured, his voice carrying just a hint of mockery. "Yet I noticed something peculiar—not once did His Imperial Majesty mention the son who died under your protection. Not once did he acknowledge Prince Clovis's sacrifice. How... curious."
The chair beneath Asprius suddenly tilted backward, sending him sprawling to the marble floor with bone-jarring force. Stars exploded across his vision as Commander Red's voice continued with unchanged calm.
"You see, Earl Asprius, our beloved father suffers from a fundamental flaw in his thinking. He believes that power comes from size, from overwhelming force, from the simple brutality of conquest. But true power—" He paused, allowing the silence to stretch until it became unbearable. "True power comes from precision. From knowing exactly when to strike, where to strike, and how much force to apply."
Commander Red knelt beside the fallen nobleman, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any scream. "You and my dear brother Clovis shared our father's delusion. You believed in Britannian supremacy so completely that you never bothered to truly understand your enemies. And now Clovis lies dead, killed by a man calling himself Zero who has turned your failure into a symbol of rebellion."
He rose and returned to his throne with measured steps. "Now then, I want you to tell me exactly what my brother was doing in the Shinjuku Ghetto. And Earl Asprius—" His eyes glittered with cold amusement. "I strongly advise you to tell the truth. My patience for incompetence has limits, and my methods for dealing with liars are... unpleasant."
Asprius struggled to his knees, blood trickling from a split lip. "Y-yes, Your Highness. Prince Clovis was conducting classified research—human experimentation. When one of the subjects escaped, he used the cover of a poison gas incident to eliminate potential witnesses..."
"By massacring an entire district," Commander Red finished with clinical detachment. "Yes, that does sound like Clovis. Always favoring the hammer when a scalpel would suffice. Do you have documentation of these experiments?"
With shaking hands, Asprius retrieved a leather portfolio from his jacket. Commander Red accepted it with the casual indifference of someone receiving a menu, his eyes scanning the photographs within with scientific interest.
"This woman," he said, holding up one particular image. "Where is she now?"
"I... I don't know, Your Highness. She was lost during the Shinjuku massacre, but with sufficient resources and time—"
The words died in Asprius's throat as Commander Red drew a curved dagger from his belt. The blade was a work of art, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the throne room's crimson lighting.
"Earl Asprius," Commander Red said conversationally, testing the blade's edge against his thumb. "Do you know what separates a professional from an amateur?"
Asprius could only stare, transfixed by the weapon's hypnotic patterns.
"Efficiency." The blade moved with lightning precision, opening Asprius's throat in a single, perfect stroke. The earl crumpled to the marble floor, his lifeblood spreading in an ever-widening pool that reflected the chamber's crimson lighting like a dark mirror.
Commander Red wiped the dagger clean with methodical care before sheathing it. "Guards. Dispose of this waste. And have the floors cleaned—blood stains are so unsightly."
The Red War Room
The command center of the Red Ribbon Army hummed with technological power, banks of supercomputers processing data streams from across the globe while massive displays showed tactical readouts that would have made regular military commanders weep with envy. When Commander Red entered, the effect was immediate and absolute—every officer rose from their station in perfect synchronization, their voices joining in thunderous unity.
"HAIL RED RIBBON!"
Commander Red acknowledged their salute with a slight inclination of his head, his attention already focused on the primary display showing satellite imagery of the Shinjuku Ghetto. The wasteland of corpses struck him not as a victory, but as evidence of tactical incompetence on a massive scale.
"Current administrative status of Japan?" he inquired, his voice carrying easily through the chamber despite its soft tone.
"Princess Euphemia has been appointed colonial administrator, Commander," replied his aide, a sharp-featured woman whose loyalty had been purchased with a combination of fear and generous compensation. "Princess Cornelia is en route to provide military oversight."
Commander Red's expression didn't change, but something subtle shifted in his bearing—like a cobra coiling to strike. "Establish communication. I have business with my sisters."
The communication array activated with a low harmonic whine, quantum entanglement transmitters reaching across the Pacific to establish contact with Area 11. Within moments, both princesses appeared on the main screen in high definition that capturing every nuance of their expressions.
Euphemia's face lit up with genuine joy upon seeing her brother, her smile radiant enough to warm even the sterile command center. "Cornelius! What a wonderful surprise! I was just thinking about you. How are you? You look well, though perhaps a little thin—"
"Spare me the familial pleasantries," Commander Red interrupted with surgical precision, watching as Euphemia's smile died like a flower touched by frost. "I'm contacting you to inform you of a change in operational parameters. I will be assuming control of Japanese pacification efforts. My qualifications exceed yours."
Cornelia's reaction was immediate and volcanic. "Watch your tongue, brother! You may have carved out your little kingdom in the wasteland, but you're still a prince of Britannia! And that territory is designated Area 11, not Japan!"
Commander Red's smile was as thin as a razor's edge. "How delightfully narrow-minded of you, dear sister. Yes, I am indeed unfortunate enough to be born into an empire that builds its foundation on xenophobic delusion and cultural genocide. As for what I choose to call that nation," His voice dropped to that familiar, dangerous whisper. "I'll use whatever terminology I deem appropriate."
The siblings locked eyes across the digital divide, the very air seeming to crackle with barely contained violence.
"Please, both of you!" Euphemia's voice cracked with genuine anguish. "Cornelius, what you're asking for... it's not impossible, but it will require careful political maneuvering. Father appointed me to this position personally, but perhaps... perhaps we could find a way to work together?"
Commander Red considered this with the patience of a predator evaluating wounded prey. "An interesting proposition. I accept your offer of cooperation—provided you understand that all operations will be conducted according to Red Ribbon protocols."
Relief flooded Euphemia's features, though Cornelia remained visibly skeptical of any arrangement involving her unstable brother.
"However," Commander Red continued, his tone shifting to something far more ominous, "should either of you attempt to interfere with my objectives, should you prove to be more liability than asset..."
He leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the cold light of the command displays like twin stars burning in the void.
"I will have you killed. Both of you. Without hesitation. Without regret. And I will make it look like an accident."
The silence that followed was deafening. Cornelia's face had gone white with rage, her hands clenched into fists that trembled with barely restrained violence. Euphemia's expression crumbled, tears beginning to trace silver lines down her cheeks as she stared at the brother she barely recognized.
"Red Ribbon out."
The transmission ended with digital finality, leaving the sisters alone with their respective demons. In her private quarters overlooking the skyline of the Tokyo Settlement, Euphemia stood before an antique family portrait—a relic from simpler times when Cornelius had been merely her brilliant but troubled brother, not the cold-eyed stranger who had just threatened her life.
She traced his younger face with trembling fingers, remembering when those same eyes had held warmth instead of calculated menace. When had he changed? When had the brother who once protected her from nightmares become something far more terrifying than any childhood fear?
"Why do you hate us so much?" she whispered to the empty room, her tears falling like rain against the portrait's glass. "What happened to you, Cornelius? What happened to the brother I loved?"
The portrait offered no answers, only the haunting reminder of innocence lost and family bonds severed by ambition's cold blade. Outside her window, the lights of the settlement twinkled like distant stars, unaware that their fate now rested in the hands of a prince who had traded his humanity for power.
In the Australian wasteland, Commander Red stood alone on his tower's highest balcony, gazing out over his crimson empire while the wind carried the distant sounds of marching soldiers and industrial machinery. Soon, very soon, he would add Japan to his domain. And after that...
The world itself would learn to fear the Red Ribbon.